


An Excercise in Repression

by scarecrowfan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, not explicitly shippy but this is a fandom that likes to see the romance in the morbid, warning for violence and attempted strangling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowfan/pseuds/scarecrowfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will knows that he is dreaming because he hears the beating of hooves on linoleum floor. The steps form a slow and steady tempo, much like that of a heart. And like a heart it is not long before they come to a stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Excercise in Repression

Will knows that he is dreaming because he hears the beating of hooves on linoleum floor. The steps form a slow and steady tempo, much like that of a heart. And like a heart it is not long before they come to a stop.

His own steps are a weak slap of bare feet against the tile as he walks up to the beast, curious to see what has stopped its slow and steady progress. The dark wood of the door gives the impression of being solid and steady in a way that Will can never match, and because of that he is fearful of what lies on the other side. Very often blocked doorways are his mind's way of trying to lock something, _anything_ from Will's consciousness in an effort to hold on to what little sanity he has left.

But as is often the case with dreams, things will not go the way he wants them to. The stag noses at his elbow and paws at the floor impatiently, and Will knows that he has no choice but to open the door himself and push through whatever barrier his subconscious has built up.

The metal of the handle is cold under his touch, far colder than the linoleum floor or the sterile air that seems to surround him here. It does not yield at first, and for a moment he thinks that he might be able to allow this one to be. That for once his curiosity and the perpetual motion of his thoughts will not push him to a place he does not want to go. But the animal at his side grows impatient, becomes more forceful in its nudges; the sound of a single hoof striking the floor becomes louder and louder, almost deafening as Will rattles the door handle in vain-

Suddenly and without warning it yields, and the door pushes itself open as calmly as if he had pressed only his fingertips to the wood and pushed. The familiarity of what lies on the other side surprises him, catches him off-guard in the same way a masterfully-crafted crime scene does when he hasn't adequately prepared himself for the sight.

(This is almost always. When the sight of the murder does not make his insides tighten suddenly and his palms sweat, it is because Will's mind has already crafted much worse for him to gaze at behind closed eyelids.)

In the middle of the methodically organized space, with a bookcase several feet tall framing his view of the room and an eerily familiar statue on the mantle just below it, stands Hannibal. The good doctor folds his hands behind himself as he offers his patient a calm smile. He is dressed in one of his many tailored suits and his hair is impeccable as always, but behind him Will can see the tiny droplets as they drip from his hands and unto the carpet, where they disappear without a trace.

"Good, you're here. I have been expecting you, Will." When he gestures to chair on his left the hand is as immaculate as the rest of him, but when Will stares it is easy for him to see the faint stains that remain on Hannibal's skin. Light and easy to miss if you do not take the time to observe, but they become impossible to ignore once he becomes aware of them. Will strides across the room with a confidence he only possesses when he molds his mind to the shape of another's, but the offered seat is ignored in favor of the other figure in the room.

The first blow is swift, his hand striking Hannibal's trachea in a way that leaves him on his knees and gasping for breath. From there, it is not hard to push the other man to the floor, to hold him there as his hands wrap around his throat. Hannibal's expression is once again serene as Will's fingers begin to tighten around his neck. He does not struggle or claw at his attacker, but instead smiles even as his pulse begins to quicken. Will can feel it, hammering beneath his fingertips, becoming faster and faster as Hannibal's heart attempts to pump what little oxygen there is left to his blood. His skin is already beginning to bruise as Will's nails dig into unmarred flesh, as thumbs press directly against his Adam's apple and _push_ , push until he can practically feel it giving in beneath the pressure-

And then, suddenly, it is him who is looking up at Hannibal while hands wrap around his throat and attempt to squeeze out the very air from his lungs. Hannibal continues to smile at him, forces Will to make eye contact even as his hands scramble for purchase on the rug, for a way to push him off. 

And just as suddenly Will ceases to struggle.

He is not yet dead. There is still enough oxygen in his brain for consciousness to remain, but here in the office which his mind has recreated with meticulous detail, up to and including the very person who is supposed to serve as his anchor from all of this, Will realizes the futility of his own struggle. He relaxes beneath Hannibal and the doctor's eyes light up, as if he is pleased that Will has caught on so quickly to the point of this exercise. Pinned to the floor and with his mind swimming from the lack of air, Will purposely retains eye contact even as the edges of his vision begin to blur and darken.

It feels right, somehow, that it should end this way. That Hannibal should be the one to witness his last moments of consciousness before Will's life finally (mercifully) leaves his body. The older man leans forward suddenly, breaking eye contact so that he can press his lips to Will's ear. "You are a clever, clever boy, when you allow yourself to look. Do not shield your eyes for too long, Will, or it will be your undoing." Here, his voice takes on an almost playful air. "And it would be a shame, would it not? To waste a gift as rare as yours."

The pressure has not eased, the air has not returned to his lungs, but when his body convulses in its last moments of life Will suddenly finds himself sitting up in his own bed, gasping for oxygen as if this is the first time it has entered into his lungs. His t-shirt is soaked, as are the sheets beneath him, but none of it matters because for once Will cannot remember the nightmare that awakened him, try as he might.

He soon falls back into uneasy sleep, and when the morning arrives there are only the usual images of mutilated bodies and blood-soaked hands for him to contend with. The next time he arrives at Dr. Lecter's office for their session, he can't help but freeze in the doorway.

"Is something wrong, Will? I would have thought that after all this time, we would have gotten over your hesitation to enter into my space." Hannibal's tone is mild, but his eyes are sharp as they study Will's expression.

"It's- it's nothing. I just had a particularly rough night last night, so I'm a little out of it." He scrubs a hand in his hair as he steps inside, head ducked and eyes trained on the floor.

"I see. So the nightmares have worsened, as of late?"

The rest of their session continues on as normal, but as Will paces around the office and rambles hurriedly at Hannibal, he can't help but feel like there is something he's not seeing. Something in the office that he can't seem to bring himself to notice.


End file.
